


These Are The Times

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Domestic Fluff, Prompt Fic, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7500222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes diversions are not enough. You can always do something. Written for JWP #15: Throw the Book At 'Em.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Are The Times

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: It's been a rough 48 hours in the world. I didn't feel much like writing, either. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.

  
It had been a trying day in a wearisome month in a dreadful year; a time where all the world was lost in conflict; and when reason, justice, and decency seemed as far away from the general hearts of mankind as Sussex was from our old home in Baker Street.   
  
There was little enough either of us could do against such winds. Holmes had done what he could in the years leading up to the start of the conflict; and who was it to say how much worse things could have been even than this, had it not been for his efforts. My own contributions were paltry compared to his, yet I had sacrificed three years, my health, and very nearly my life doing what little I could in the face of those horrors.  
  
The little Sussex cottage was far away from the worst of things, but we were not untouched; not from the past, or the present, or whatever was to come. We both knew this, and sought comfort and refuge in what we could: the warm fire in the fireplace, the company of the other, and the well-worn pages of favourite books. From the occasional mutterings Holmes made as he read – “Nothing exists from whose nature some effect does not follow” – and the age of the volume, I surmised he had found refuge with Spinoza. I had hoped to find similar distraction with Dickens, but neither the stoic heroism of Darnay nor the dogged perseverance of David could keep my attention. For I wanted more, needed more, than these entertaining tales, no matter how well-suited the subjects might otherwise be. I needed to do something, or at least to try.  
  
A futile need, given my precarious health and shattered nerves. And yet there remained one thing I knew I could do. Had done, even when my health was at its worst, when my spirits were at their lowest, when everything seemed black and the future desolate.  
  
I put down my books, picked up my lap-desk, journal, and my pen, and began to write.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 15, 2016


End file.
